Christmas ’83 Im Kladower-Hof, Berlin.
©Neil Wills December 2001

Unseen by us the ring of steel and concrete skirts the small, leafy district of Kladow. East German guards avoid contact with their gun barrels as they trudge through the petrified landscape. Their dogs’ breath explodes then dies on the still air. It is minus 20 degrees celsius and the snow is piled like icing sugar against the buildings and coats the roads and pavements with intent to trap the unwary.

It is a few days before Christmas in 1983. I, along with my colleagues have finished our last day shift before the celebrations. Our office party is in progress. The bus has taken us straight from work to the pub. The local die-hards remain but a sea of Air Force blue has expanded to fill every spare nook and cranny. The owner is pleased. I suspect he is relieved it is the air force and not the army who are in. Fewer breakages.

Noisy exuberance and festive spirit compete with the faint sounds of ‘Heilige Nacht’ which has been placed on the juke box.

To paraphrase Roxy Music, ‘I stake my place in the singles bar’ – more exactly the singles table. In fact, there are also some married guys at the table. I think we all know why.

I watch from two perspectives. Close up. Eyes watering as the schnapps burns and settles. Laughing, joking and smiling in the happy crowd. Part of the celebration. A friendly face. Open.

On another level. Excited, obsessed. Secretly and, as if from the back of a long tunnel I watch. The walls of the tunnel shield my furtive view from casual glance. I know my laser dot dances in company. She is peppered by them. I know their owners. They probably know me.
I hope she has not guessed that I am one.

White teeth clash with the cold ice and the glass caresses her lips. Patterned by reflected light they are brutally crushed by the tumbler. Unbruised, they reflate magically as a thrill runs through me. I love her.

Connection is established. Like a hunter I do not want to scare my prey. My smile is innocuous, and innocent. My eyes linger on her neck. She mesmerises me. From over the raised bottom of my bottle (Was trinken wir? Schultheiss bier!) My eyes smile at her. She is laughing at someone’s joke. I pay no heed to the joke. It is an effort to think at all. Her cheekbones are flushed with happiness. The courtiers vie with each other for approbation and their voices are subsumed into the din. But when she speaks the world is hushed.

Her voice reaches me clearly and without background mush. Am I tuned into her frequency only? She smiles as she speaks to me. I am the chosen one if only for the length of her broadcast.

I pass her another glass of Apfelkorn and meet her warm fingers. Dare I hold them longer than necessary? Insolently?

A millisecond only and I retreat. She must know but cares not or has already condemned me to the ranks of the also-rans around us. My hand itches to offer my lighter but I allow the sycophants to lunge between us. Her thanks is tossed casually for them to fight over or hug to themselves later as they lie with their bored wives in married quarters or their magazines in the barrack block. I wait.

Voices intrude upon my thoughts urging me to drink another. Fine I say. Could be a long night. She looks at me as I speak. I pretend not to notice.

I have my sanity and self worth to protect. For two years I have avoided this. Easy come, easy go girls. Nights out with the boys. Fleet of foot and charming are all I was, I am, but my will is being sapped. It is as if she has been bombarding my defences until, I now have no will to resist.

No. Not true. I want to surrender. I want to tell her. Hold her. But there is danger in this. I am not a plaything. I do the playing. Do the dirty. Dump them at will. If I move I will be opening myself up. Exposed. She may do for me as I have done for others. I know deep down that she has the power to hurt me as I’ve never been hurt before. But, how will I know if I don’t try?

As if waiting for the storm to break she sits silently. She watches the clowns, smiling. I move closer to the table and, as she turns to speak to me I commit myself.

My mouth speeds toward her beautiful lips and slows for the docking. She has time to turn aside but doesn’t. My lips are gentle as they take hers in an embrace. No other part of our bodies touch. No tongues, no teeth. No rush. No words. Our lips slowly and tentatively caress. Hours of tenderness and careful exploration are wrapped in an instant. My eyes close and I withdraw. She seems stunned.

I watch to see the reaction but there is none. Wide eyed she stares at me. I take in every inch of her face. The partly open lips and beautiful teeth frozen in the moment. A word begins to rise from her throat and, fearing the worst, my lips once again descend to hers. She has time to utter two words. They are neither condemnation nor plaudit. Corporal Wills!
This time the hours last for days and our hands shyly touch and hold. I have an erection.

The world fades and there is only us.